by Zizou Corder
The trapeze rose up, and she disappeared into the shadows of the roof. Charlie gazed, dumbstruck. He couldn’t say a word.
She seemed to have had the same effect on the next act. Three clowns came in, gazing upward in adoration, calling to her, waving and beckoning, jumping up to be with her, crashing down again, bumping into one another and finally all lying down on the floor in paroxysms of unrequited love.
Then a big green-and-gold cage-wagon full of snakes rolled in, and a belly dancer took a couple out and danced with them. The clowns got scared, and then she let out a huge snake, so the clowns ran away, in a very comical manner. The huge snake was dancing along the ground, rippling and sinewy, and then suddenly it started flexing and thrashing about—what was it doing? It was a powerful mover—and then Charlie realized what was happening. It was shedding its skin. The whole patterned slinky surface was shimmying and rippling down from the snake’s body.
So what was underneath?
For a moment Charlie was scared.
Something pale was emerging.
“Arrghhh!” cried Charlie, before he could stop himself. And he wasn’t the only one to yell, not at all.
The shivery snakeskin fell away. The pale, naked snake body slithered on the ground for a moment, then with one last great thrash it reared its head and rose up to its—feet?
It was standing up.
On legs.
Waving to the crowd.
With its arm.
It was Bendy Ben, the India rubber boy.
The crowd cheered as only a crowd that had been genuinely frightened and was now genuinely relieved could cheer.
So then Bendy Ben did his bendy act, during which, among other things, he sat on his own head and fed himself with his feet, using a knife and fork. Julius had told Charlie that Bendy Ben had sold his skeleton to a clinic in the Empire Homelands for a hundred thousand pounds. Charlie had assumed that the clinic would get it after Bendy Ben died, but looking at him now Charlie wondered if he had had his skeleton surgically removed, and was held together inside with bits of elastic.
Charlie glanced across to where Mabel and Maccomo were sitting.
Oh dear, where were they?
He looked around. He couldn’t see them.
His heart thudded.
No, stay calm. Search the crowd. Look carefully, scan across.
Scanning. Looking.
He found them. Maccomo was in his seat. He must have been bending down. Mabel was working her way back down the row of seats. She’d been to the restroom or something. That was okay. Charlie would have been more worried if it had been Maccomo who’d left.
But he could do without that kind of fright.
Meanwhile the Icarus Games had started, where Sigi Lucidi lay on his back and little Beppe Lucidi did acrobatics on his dad’s feet, including a handspring, and then the Lucidi men lay on their backs in a circle, each with his hips propped up on a wedge-shaped thing called a trinka, and they juggled their children between them so that the kids flew from one set of feet to another, rolled up like little bundles as they flew. Then Hans came on with his kitten. It ran up a very tall pole and leaped off the top, with a parachute, floating sweetly back down to earth, meowing and twinkling its whiskers.
How sweet, Charlie was thinking, but then the air went out of his lungs and he gasped and froze.
Sitting with Maccomo and Mabel was a dark figure. Shaven-headed. Leather-coated.
Rafi.
Francis the cowboy rode in on a white horse, his monkey on his shoulder, guns blazing, and tried to kidnap Major Tib, shouting that he was Paul Pennacorrente’s brother and he would have his revenge!
Charlie squatted like a frozen toad at the ringside. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t even think. He kept his face turned down, away from the circus lights, away from any chance of being recognized.
The trick riders were all riding in at once on their strong piebald horses, galloping after Francis and trying to catch him. The band was going crazy. But Charlie wasn’t watching. He was hiding under his turban, desperately trying to gather his thoughts, desperate to look up again and check. Perhaps it’s not Rafi. Perhaps it’s some other young guy with a sleek shaved head and a black leather coat. And the same shape face, and the same cool look . . .
The ring lights dimmed for a moment as the rest of the trick riders disappeared and Francis took charge of their horses. Charlie risked looking up.
It was Rafi all right. Maccomo was talking to him and he was smiling, his eyes flickering around. Was he looking for something? Or someone?
The audience was cheering. The drumming of the hooves and the sweet salty smell of the horses came strong from the ring, and another smell, like pine—the smell of the sticky rosin that was rubbed on the horses’ backs to keep the riders from slipping. Charlie felt sick. He stared down at the sawdust, breathed in the smell, and felt sick. Why was Rafi here? And if he had come for Charlie, why was he wasting time watching the circus? What was Rafi doing with Maccomo? How did they know each other? How long had he been there? Had he seen Charlie? Charlie had to assume he hadn’t, because otherwise all hell would have broken loose . . .
Down in the ring, two trick riders were standing on horseback, leaping, driving banks of fine horses, doing laps and calling out how clever they were. Charlie was frozen in position, the cheering of the audience ringing in his ears. He wanted desperately to sneak away, but he didn’t want to draw any attention to himself, and he wanted to keep an eye on Rafi too.
Oh—was his horrible dog with him? Was Troy going to come slobbering and snarling . . . No, Charlie remembered with relief. Dogs had to stay outside during performances.
The audience was cheering again. All except one person.
“What d’you call that? That’s pathetic,” this man called out.
Charlie stared dazedly at him. He seemed mad, or more likely drunk.
“I could do better,” called the drunk, and, heaving himself up from his seat, he staggered down the aisle toward the ring. All around him people frowned and pursed their lips and cried “Oi! Behave!” The riders ignored him to start with, but as the pest started down to the ring and began shouting even louder, they reined in their horses, looked over to where the pest was, and started laughing.
Charlie wondered. Could this disturbance be an opportunity for him?
Think, Charlie, think! he urged himself silently, but his mind was too confused.
“I could do better than the lot of you!” shouted the drunk un-clearly. He was rather bundled up, with a scarf and a hat he hadn’t taken off, and a big beard.
The riders looked at him and laughed even harder. “All right!” cried one of them, Fabien. “Come on then, big boy! You catch Francis the sharpshooter, and we’ll find a lovely reward for you!” Francis, laughing, took off around the ring, backward on his saddle for a better view.
Charlie, still frozen in position, was realizing miserably that there was nothing he could do. He put his hand to his eyes, and glanced up to the seats beyond. Maccomo and Mabel were watching the show with professional interest. Rafi was looking vaguely amused.
Fabien was sneering at the pest. He unhitched one of his pretty rosinbacks and handed over the reins, saying, “Here, why don’t you start the easy way?” Whereupon the pest clambered up the horse—and toppled straight over it and down the other side. It would have been pretty funny . . . Then the pest managed to get up, but the moment the horse started moving, he fell down the side again and was hanging by one leg from the saddle. When he tried to hoist himself up, he went down the other side again, then he fell off completely. Fabien and Francis could hardly control their laughter.
Maccomo was leaning in toward Rafi, as if he were trying to interest him in something. Rafi was looking as if it was all a bit childish, really.
Well, thought Charlie, he’s not looking at me, or for me, which means he doesn’t know I’m here, because if he knew, he’d be looking. So that means Maccomo hasn’t told him.
&
nbsp; The pest, angry now, was tearing off his coat and jumping back on the horse, galloping halfway around the ring, and falling off again. This time he tore off his suit jacket, jumped back on, and fell off again immediately. His vest came off: He tried getting on from the other side, and failed, galloping around hanging over the saddle on his stomach like a sack of flour. The horse drew to a halt again, then took off again, rearing up so that the pest slid off backward and landed on his bottom.
So perhaps, thought Charlie, it’s a coincidence.
Could it be?
Could it?
At that moment, Maccomo and Rafi both looked up and scanned the ringside. Maccomo pointed. Rafi stared and focused. On Charlie.
It seemed as if it was the weight of his heart lurching that flung Charlie back into the shadows just beyond the circle of ring lights. Had Rafi seen him?
Charlie’s breath got short. He felt his shoulders tightening and his lungs shrinking.
Not now, he told himself. Not now, please . . . Keeping himself carefully in the shadows he reached for his inhaler and started doing his breath-control exercises.
Charlie’s eyes were closed, counting his breaths. Calming himself, calming the asthma attack. He didn’t notice when the pest threw himself up to stand on the horse’s back. The horse looked as if it were about to take off again, but the pest uttered a great cry, tore off his hat and his long baggy shirt, and—
Charlie opened his eyes.
It was Madame Barbue standing on the horse, beautiful in a tiny, pale green sequined ballet outfit and tights, her beard curled and oiled, her arms bare and her toes pointed in their pretty slippers. “Alley-oop!” she cried with a gay laugh, and the horse, which seemed to be laughing too, took off around the ring, Madame Barbue balanced on its back, throwing her arms out and looking as elegant as you please.
Charlie breathed, slowly and gently. He kept his face well back. Nothing was happening over on the other side of the ring. No one had leaped across, shouting: “You uppity little squit, I’ll get you . . .” Rafi, Mabel, and Maccomo were still in their seats, still watching the show.
Madame Barbue was gathering together all the horses that Fabien had been driving, and doing a tour of honor around the ring before scooping Francis up onto the horse behind her, and delivering him to Fabien with a flourish.
Charlie’s breath began to settle. He seemed to have edged back up the aisle without even meaning to.
I will stick with my plan, thought Charlie. I have to. There’s nothing else I can do. It’s too complicated to try to change it. I have a lot of horses to keep in line too. An image sprang into his mind: the lions all hitched up in reins, and him driving them across the Seine to the station.
He smiled, and his smile made him brave.
And then it was the end of the show. All the horses and the zebras came into the ring, with colored lanterns on their backs, and took up their positions. They were forming, Charlie realized, a giant carousel: circling, dipping, and jumping in concentric rings going opposite ways, each one level up from the one outside it, so the form seemed to rise to a pyramid in the center like a wedding cake. And there at the top, where the bride and groom would be, tiny white ponies circled a rearing black stallion. Garlands and balloons and streamers of all colors fell from the ceiling, glittering and glinting in the shaft of colored swirling light. Rose petals flurried about, the band played on, and the big top roof opened to the sky and fireworks streamed up into the starry darkness. Charlie would have been beyond delight, but instead he was on his feet and running.
CHAPTER 17
The lights came up, the applause died down, the audience was drifting up the grand staircase saying, “Wasn’t that fantastic? Wasn’t that wonderful? That bit when the . . . And how about when the . . . And that girl! I’ve never seen anything like it . . .” The last sparks of the fireworks were drifting back down to sink in the murky waters of the canal basin. Charlie, out on the deck, invisible in the shadows, heard them plop and fizz.
He saw Mabel and Maccomo, heads together, emerging from the main entrance with the crowd. Rafi was with them. He sauntered a step or two behind, with the dog Troy on a leash. Every now and again he leaned forward to say something. When he did, Maccomo turned back to him with an ingratiating smile. Charlie, keeping himself invisible in the crowd behind them, got the impression that Maccomo had arranged to meet Rafi, but didn’t want him hanging around. He was being polite, though. It wasn’t often that Maccomo took the trouble to be polite.
The trio headed out on to the gangplank.
“Go on, go on,” breathed Charlie.
They were leaving.
Charlie ducked through the crowd and out into the gardens, where he was able to overtake them. Lurking in the shadow of the shrubbery, he could see their faces in the crowd. Mabel looked annoyed—she had wanted to be alone with Maccomo. Rafi had moved up, between her and the lion trainer, and was saying something. As they passed by Charlie’s hiding place, Charlie strained to hear, but couldn’t make anything out.
Then the men turned and, excusing themselves from Mabel, moved away from the path, the light, and the crowd. Charlie melted into the darkness. They were coming toward him. His heart pounding, he slipped behind a tree.
Rafi and Maccomo, in the shadows, hidden from the crowded path by a bush, were standing and pretending to pee. Charlie could see and hear them clearly. He could only hope that they could not see or hear him. He breathed lightly. His asthma attack had passed, and he felt fit and strong and ready.
“So, Maccomo,” Rafi was saying. “If your lionboy can do what you say, then obviously I have clients who would be interested in that. Any genuine unusual talent, genetic variation, skills—that kind of thing can always sell. You know that. But I’ve got to know that it’s genuine. I can’t turn up with some trick—this is science, not the circus, know what I mean? So you enjoy your dinner with your young lady”—here Rafi seemed to suppress a laugh—“and tomorrow I’ll come and have a look at him, and we’ll see what we can do. All right?”
Charlie, deep in the shadows, gave a dark smile. So that was it. Maccomo had told Rafi about the Cat-speaking. Rafi sells skills and talent—so Rafi had stolen his parents in order to sell them. And now Rafi wanted to sell him too. Whom to? The same people who have his parents? That would be one way of getting to where they were . . .
Stupid . . .
But Rafi obviously didn’t know that the Cat-speaking lionboy is Charlie Ashanti. How long before Maccomo lets slip Charlie’s name, and Rafi realizes that the boy with the talent is also the boy he was after anyway?
The moment Maccomo tells Rafi my name, thought Charlie, I am in deep doo-doo.
Rafi was still talking. “So my compliments to Ms. Stark,” he said smoothly, “and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
They started to move away, toward the bright lights. “By the way,” said Rafi. “Where is he now?”
“What, the lionboy?” said Maccomo, in his soft voice. “He’ll be back on the boat somewhere, maybe with the lions . . .”
“What’s his name?” said Rafi.
“Sharlie. Ch—arlie.”
“Charlie what?” said Rafi with a sudden alert look.
Charlie turned.
He heard Mabel’s voice behind him, calling, “Come on, Maccomo, what’s keeping you?”
He ran. Quicker than Rafi, because only Charlie knew that the race was on.
Straight to the ship, straight to the lionchamber.
Six sets of yellow eyes greeted him in the darkness of the cabin, and a new kind of energy awoke in him. He took the big, heavy old key from its hook, and unlocked the cages.
“How goes it, Lionboy?” came the voice of the oldest lion.
“Fine,” said Charlie shortly. “Rafi is here. We’re off. Now!”
The oldest lion heard the urgency in his voice. “Ride the young lion,” he said. “Quicker.”
Charlie didn’t hesitate. It was true that a lion could not hide so well in the shadow
s with a boy on his back, but it was even truer that a boy is slower than a lion.
He grabbed his jacket, shouldered his bag, gave the youngest lion a grin, and slipped out the door of the chamber. All was quiet outside, just as he had expected.
But Rafi was out there somewhere, and coming for him.
Charlie made himself look around carefully, before letting the lions slide out, then closed the door behind them and locked it. He remembered his mum’s lab door, open when it should have been shut, right at the beginning of this adventure: his first warning of danger. His heart was pounding like a woodpecker: quick, light, relentless.
Charlie could hardly see the lions as they slunk against the walls of the cabins, in the dark areas where neither moonlight nor lamplight fell. Over by the gangplank, the sounds of voices and activity bustled and hummed. Laughter came over the water, and the lights twinkled. Way above, along the boulevard above the basin, streetlights and people and traffic were going about their business. Behind them lay the ship, and the canal, and the way they had traveled so far. Ahead of them lay the run down to where the canal met the river, then the river itself, which they had to cross to get to the station.
The rest of the night was dark and quiet, cool and damp and rivery. The moon was still low.
The lions hooded their eyes and disappeared—no more than dark shadows as they glided along the stern, breathing fresh air for the first time in months. It took no more than seconds for them to slide over the balustrade onto the rope, a few seconds more to slither across the rope to the shore. They didn’t give a second glance to the dark space between the ship and the quayside, to the gleaming cold water at the bottom of the abyss, or the slimy green weed shining on the wall of the quay. Charlie, for a horrible moment, wondered how he was supposed to get over. Could he clamber across the horrible gap, clutching the nasty, rough, slippery, salty rope?
The young lion was beside him.
“On,” he whispered urgently, his breath warm in the darkness, and Charlie was glad to climb onto his long back and lie clasped to him, smelling the warm, sweet, furry smell and feeling the muscles move beneath him as the lion, like a river made flesh, slid over the railings and across the rope.